Sunday, July 27, 2008

Indian George kicked the big sorrel into a grudging gallop. The animal was old and fat and didn’t like to run, much less travel along a mud-rutted dirt road. A slow, drag-hoofed amble was its preferred speed. He should have taken the Jeep. It was rusty and antiquated, but it would have gotten him to his destination quicker. Like most Naturals, however, George never used the vehicle if he could keep from doing so.

The Jeep was for long distances and emergencies, and while this was an emergency, the Talltrees’ farm was next door to his and the sorrel could take the road much easier than an ancient contraption like George’s automobile, with its primitive internal combustion engine. Its wheels—that actually touched the ground—would hit every pothole and dip in sight.

He gave the sorrel’s withers a slap with his hand.“Git, you nag! Or it’s the processing plant for you.”

The sorrel didn’t move a bit faster, as if aware that horses were an Endangered Domestic Species and knew it was totally safe.

Only an hour earlier, George had heard of Tran’s arrest. In the three days since an Albegensian warship had fired upon a Terran deep-space freighter, blasting it to micro-particles with all hands on board, all Albegensi in Earth residence were being taken into custody and detained for questioning in accordance with Standard Procedure in times of Global Martial Emergency. Tran had been one of the unfortunates.

George was old enough to have lived through two wars between Earth and its neighbors and he was aware of what might happen to Tran now, and he knew none of it would be pleasant. At the moment, however, his concern was for the welfare of Tran’s wife and son who were alone at the farm.

He turned the sorrel’s head, guiding it through the gate, and pulled it to a stiff-legged and grateful halt in front of the house. The animal snorted and stretched its neck against the reins, attempting to reach the short grass growing in the front yard, to make up for the meal it had been forced to miss by taking its owner on this sudden trip.

The Talltrees’ home was a small wooden building, every plank and nail placed by hand over 100 years before by Ramon Talltrees, great-grandfather of Tran’s wife, Andrea. Like the other inhabitants of the Valley, Ramon had been a Natural, choosing to live as his ancestors had centuries before, with as few contemporary conveniences—and their accompanying pollution—as possible.

On the top step of the porch sat a boy, arms resting against his knees. He was slim and dark. At first glance, he might have been mistaken for one of George’s people, but the blue-black sheen to his braided hair as well as the slight slant to his brown eyes marked him as Albegensi—Tran’s 14-year-old son, Acashi, suddenly finding himself head of the house and in charge of the farm. He didn’t look up as George scrambled off the sorrel’s back and dropped the reins, but stared listlessly across the field beyond the fence.

Leaving the sorrel munching on Andrea’s daisies, George looked up at the boy.“Cash?”

He had to call twice before Cash turned from his contemplation of the field. There was a hopelessness in the young face that made the old man want to cry.

“Where’s your mother?”

“She’s inside,” the boy said, gesturing behind him. As George started up the steps, he reached out and caught the old man’s arm. “I’m worried about her. She hasn’t eaten since they took Dad away.” He was holding an oak leaf, and began to shred it into strips as he spoke. “She just sits there. I practically had to carry her upstairs to sleep.” He threw the pieces of leaf to the ground and looked across the field again, tears in the voice but they wouldn’t show in the eyes. Tran’s son wouldn’t allow that. “I-I’m scared. I’ve lost Dad--I don’t want to lose her, too.”

The old man patted the boy’s shoulder and went through the front door. Though the Naturals’ teachings allowed the use of electricity, it was not the solar power utilized by the rest of the world, but the hydroelectric kind supplied by a small generating plant set on the falls of the river that wandered through the Valley. Fuel lamps were the usual mode of illumination, although no one had turned on the lights. It was so dim inside George thought the room was empty. Then, he saw Andi, sitting beside the fireplace.

The room was cold for an April day, but no fire had been laid. She was in the old rocker—handmade, like the rest of the furniture—staring into the emptiness of the hearth. She didn’t look up as George came in, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Huddled in the rocker, hands clutched against her chest, she sat blank-eyed, like someone’s ancient grandmother. Only one hand moved, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. She was wearing a sweater, a long skirt, and knee-high suede boots—all handmade, all products of the farm. Her hair, thick and honey-yellow, hung in a single braid over one shoulder.

Seeing her tear-stained blondness, George once again marveled that she was mother to the dark-haired, dark-eyed child who sat on the front steps. She looks so young, he thought. Like Cash’s older sister, not his mother.

“Andi?”

She didn’t move, but when he got nearer, she spoke in a low monotone.

“They took him away, George. Arrested him on ‘suspicion’—what does that mean? Suspicion of what?” When she looked at the old Navajo, her eyes were bleak with despair, lashes wet with the tears that Cash wouldn’t shed. “How could they think Tran’s a spy? It’s preposterous!” She shook her head and turned to stare at the hearth again.

“Come on.” George put his arms around her, pulling her to her feet.

“Where are we going?” she asked, mildly protesting being moved, and clutched at his hands for support.

“To the kitchen.” He steered her through the open doorway at the back of the room and pushed her toward the trestle table. “Cash says you haven’t eaten. That isn’t going to do anyone any good.”

She sat at the table while he put the kettle on to boil. Luckily, Cash had stoked the cast-iron stove earlier, and it was still hot. George added another log and turned to look at Andi. She was pale, as dazed as someone abandoned, and he didn’t like it. The Andi he knew was a feisty little thing, who could lick all of her 110 pounds in wildcats, and took no guff from anyone. This docile, apathetic creature was totally unlike her. She was in shock, he decided. Turning back to the table, he pulled out a chair and sat down.

“What will you do, Andi?” he asked, thinking frantically of something to say, anything to get her talking and take that lost look from her face.

“Do? I…” She looked across the table at him. “George, I don’t know. What can I do?” She made a vague gesture with one hand. “If I knew where Tran was taken, maybe I could petition the local headquarters, get affidavits from our neighbors saying he’s no spy, somehow get him released, but I don’t even know where he is.”

George had a good idea where Tran was, but he hated to tell her. He also knew she had little chance of freeing her husband on the strength of some names written on a paper, even if she was lucky enough to find anyone unafraid of signing it. Only two times in the past 300 years had the United Terran Federation relinquished a prisoner because of public demand.

“He’s probably been taken to an intern camp, and if that’s so, you may never see him again. Those places are deadly, Andi.”

“An intern camp? Oh, George, I never thought that something like that existed, not on Earth.” Her voice rose, becoming shrill. “Things like this just don’t happen, not here, not now! This isn’t the twenty-first century. They can’t just come in and take a man away like…”

One hand went to her mouth, stifling whatever she had been going to say. She shook her head and closed her eyes. George didn’t argue. He just nodded in sad agreement, and they both sat in silence for a long time.

Even after four world wars and two interplanetary ones, many people had no idea what happened to alien nationals during wartime, and many didn’t want to know. There were four internment camps, and only the Federation Marshals knew where they were. George had had the misfortune to be a guard at a camp during an earlier war. The memory of the things he had seen made him take refuge in the Valley when his enlistment was over. It had been years before he ventured from its safety again.

How could he help Tran? He was just an old Navajo. Though chosen hataalii to his people, to those Outside, he was simply an anachronism…like the Naturals themselves. What could he possibly do?

With sudden surprise, he knew. It had been hovering in his mind since he heard of Tran’s arrest, but would Andi accept it? Did he want her to accept it? He looked over at her.

“Andi, if Tran is in one of those camps, I…may…know someone who can help you. He could find out which one so you’d know who to get in touch with.”

He tried to sound optimistic, and failed, his own doubt preventing him. It didn’t matter who she wrote or went to see. The UTF didn’t give up political prisoners, but at least it would keep her from feeling so helpless.

“Who?” She looked up eagerly.

“Sinbad.”

“S-Sinbad?” An uncertain smile hovered at the corners of her mouth, as if he’d made a joke she didn’t quite understand. She stared at him. “But that’s just a fairytale. A story you used to tell me when I was little. Sinbad isn’t a real person.”

“Oh, this one’s real enough,” George assured her. “He’s Felidan, a smuggler--has his headquarters in Old Town.”

“George! Where did you meet a smuggler?” Her smile was real this time. “Is there a side to you we don’t know about?”

He shook his head and returned her smile. “Some of the natives of Felida have the Eyes-that-Seek-the-Spirit. When I heard there was a Felidan in Old Town, I went to see if he had the gift. It would've been a great help to me in ministering to our people.”

“Did he?”

“No.” He shook his head again. “He’s a half-breed. His genetic heritage had diluted what little ability there was, but we kept in touch. I patched him up a couple of times when he got too close to the Coast Guard and needed a medic who'd keep quiet.” At Andi’s disapproving reaction to this statement, he shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “In a way, he’s a friend.”

She was thoroughly attentive now. “And you think this…Sinbad…could help me? Why would he?”

“He was in a prison camp once. If he can do anything to thwart the UTF, he will. He…”

The teakettle’s high, shrill whistle was a welcome interruption. George stood up and quickly poured water into two cups, adding spoonfuls of herb tea and sweetener. Then, he brought the cups to the table with a flourish.

“Here you are, blackberry tea with honey. Just the way you like it.”

Andi took the cup, sipping slowly, savoring the taste. When she was small and something went wrong—whether it was a skinned knee or bad grades in school—George always made it better with blackberry tea.

“You’re so good to me, George. I think you’re the best friend I have.”

He looked down at his cup. Praise always discomfited George. He stirred his tea with great attention. Andi took another sip. She looked better, he thought. There was more life in her eyes…and hope, too, but he was sorry his words had put it there. Abruptly, she set down her cup.

“Where can I find this Sinbad?”

George continued to stir his tea. Now, he was having second thoughts. It was dangerous to seek out a known criminal, especially for the purposes of obtaining classified information. He was urging Andi toward treason, and if she were caught--

“George?”

“I heard you. Uh--just forget what I said.”

“Forget it?” She looked surprised. “But, George, if he can help…I mean, you said he doesn’t like the Federation…”

Her voice trailed away at the look of concern he turned toward her.

“He doesn’t. But he dislikes Terrans even more.” He reached across the table and placed a hand over hers. “He’s dangerous, Andi. He’s a criminal, and…I-I’m sorry I mentioned it. I don’t want you to have anything to do with Sinbad sh’en Singh.”

Gently, she withdrew her hand from beneath his. He knew by the stubborn tilt of her chin that she’d made up her mind, and nothing he could say or do would change it. George’s heart sank.

“Where can I find him, George?” she asked quietly.

***

Andi paused at the swinging doors of the Asteroid Cantina. The building was a little better-looking than those surrounding it. At least, it had recently had a fresh coat of paint. From inside came the sounds of voices raised in laughter, a faint smattering of music, and the clinking of glasses.

Shifting her pack to the other shoulder, she placed one hand on the weather-beaten synthetic planking. Everything a Natural might need when away from the Valley was in that pack: money, a medicine bag filled with herbals to treat everything from headache to snakebite, and her identification card. She was never without the pack, and though there were no weapons inside, just having it with her made her feel safer.

“Go to the Blue Owl Café,” George had told her, reluctantly. “If Sinbad isn’t there, the bartender can tell you where to find him. And, please, be careful.”

The bartender at the Blue Owl had directed her to the Asteroid Cantina with even more hesitation, and an ominous warning.

“Sinbad doesn‘t like Terrans, especially the women. He‘ll eat a little thing like you alive.”

At that, a blue-haired Abydian socializer sitting at the bar looked Andi up and down with heavily-painted eyes and snickered into her red beer.

"Be interesting to see how much is left of her after he gets through."

"Shut up, Saydee!" The bartender went back to polishing his glasses, shaking his head.

Andi would have been startled if she could have heard his thoughts.

She's such a pretty little thing. A lady, a real lady. What does a woman like this want with that Felidan smuggler?

Now, thinking about the bartender’s warning, Andi looked around quickly. This wasn’t a place she’d like to be in late at night. She knew very little about Felidans—not even what they looked like—except that, 35 years before, their planet and Earth had been at war. The history books had generously said that the Felidans were ferocious fighters, but Terra cleverly brought the war into the Solar Sector where they were able to recuperate on the worlds of the Federation while the enemy forces, far from home, had no allies to aid them. In spite of this, they fought 11 bloody years before surrendering.

The Federation showed no mercy to its conquered enemies. All the adult males of the Royal House, and its commanding officers, were arrested and brought before a military court. Some were executed, some sentenced to life in military prisons scattered throughout the System. No occupying troops came to Felida, the planet was quarantined from outside communication as part of its punishment.

Bereft of their ruling family, the clans were in chaos, when the Pride chiefs stepped in. Within eight years, negotiations with their conquerors brought about the reinstating of a Felidan leader to the throne—though he was to remain a Terran figurehead for 10 more years—and the release and pardon of all the surviving members of the Warrior caste.

And now, she was on her way to meet one of those men. Andi wondered if Sinbad had been an officer in the Felidan Pride. Though the idea of facing someone who had been a war-leader frightened her, it never occurred to her to abandon her plan. For Tran’s sake, she had to do what she could, even going into the Thieves’ Quarter at Old Town.

Come on, Andi! Faint heart never freed imprisoned husband.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the doors and stepped inside. The room was dark and crowded, and there was a bluish haze in the air, mingled with a sweet, smoky smell. Trying to breathe without coughing, she started toward the bar, only to find her way blocked as a man walked in front of her. Quickly, she stepped back.

“Excuse me.” She tried to go around him, but he got in her way again.

“What’s yer hurry?”

Andi looked up at him. His hair was long and clubbed at the nape of his neck, shipman’s-style, and he was wearing a uniform with a red insignia on the sleeve. She stiffened, then relaxed as she realized he was Merchant Marine…or at least, someone off a space freighter.

“I-I…I’m looking for someone.”

She clutched the strap of the pack tighter and looked past him as if trying to determine which, of all the smoke-blurred faces in the room was the one she wanted.

”Ain’t me, is it?” He raised his glass, swallowing loudly, and leaned toward her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

A wave of whiskey-smell floated over her.

“Not unless you’re Sinbad sh’en Singh,” she snapped, and was startled to see him blink and take a step backward.

“Sinbad! Well, if he’s the one yer looking fer, he’s here somewhere.” He jerked his head in the direction of the bar. “Jake can tell ya!”

He stepped aside, but as Andi brushed past him, he called after her, “Whaddaya want with that Felidan, anyway? Ain’t Terrans good enough fer ya?”

At the bar, she had to wait several minutes before the bartender came down to where she had wedged herself between two men, ignoring the curious looks they gave her as they moved aside.

“E-excuse me…Sir?” He looked over at her and stopped, waiting for her to continue. “I’m here to see Sinbad. The bartender at the Blue Owl sent me.”

Jake—if that’s who he was—gave her a long, assessing stare, combined with a little surprise, before nodding to a table at the far side of the room. Following his glance, Andi saw two figures, one standing, the other seated in the shadows. With a smile of thanks, she hurried to the corner, dodging people, skirting tables and chairs until she was near enough to hear what they were saying. The standing man was dressed in typical dockworker clothing: a black pea jacket, dark jeans.

“I’ll see ya at th’ shuttle dock tomorra, then.” The seated figure waved an acquiescent hand, as the other turned, nearly bumping into Andi who was standing behind him. "'Scuse me, Miss."

He stepped aside and hurried toward the swinging doors. Quickly, she came up to the table, putting her hands on the back of the chair the man had vacated.

“Hosteen Sh’en Singh?”

“Who’s askin’?” questioned a gruff voice.

It was hoarse and raspy, as if he was recovering from a bad chest cold. If he was surprised by her use of the Navajo word for mister, he didn't show it.

“My name’s Andrea Talltrees,” she began. “Al at the Blue Owl sent me…”

“Yer a Milky, ain’t cha?”

She was too startled to be insulted by that belittling nickname, derived from the name of Terra's galaxy, the Milky Way.

“Well, yes, but what’s that…”

“Al knows I don’t like Earthers. Sorry, Sweets, ya won’t do.”

“I-I won’t?”

Do for what? she wondered, feeling she’d doubly been insulted, and not really knowing why. He leaned back in the chair, tilting it against the wall, so that his upper body was hidden in the shadows, one knee-high boot braced against the side of the other chair. In the half light, she saw that he was wearing black leather trousers and a leather vest secured at the waist and neck with straps adorned with polished studs. His arms were bare, one hooked over the back of the chair, while the other rested against the tabletop, hands encased in short, black gloves. In the hollow of one shoulder, she could see a scarlet slash of a tattoo. There was a generous amount of bare chest and curly, coppery hair showing in the open front of the vest and Andi glanced away, studiously trying not to stare. Before she could say anything more, he reached into the pocket of the vest and produced a coin, flipping it across the table.

“Here’s an Eagle fer yer trouble.” It spun around and came to rest near the edge of the table as the other hand waved imperiously. “Now, go away.” Andi stared at the coin. It was a gold piece, very old, with a flying bird engraved on one side. She’d never seen one like it. “Go back to Al,” the deep voice went on, “an’ tell him I want an Androsan.”

Picking up the coin, she leaned forward, and taking one of his hands, carefully placed the Eagle on his palm, and closed the gloved fingers around it.

“I don’t want your money. I came here to talk to you and I’d appreciate it if you’d listen to what I have to say.”

The hand opened. He looked at the coin, then at her, and returned it to his pocket.

“By all means. Go ahead.” There was a hint of laughter behind the roughness.

She looked around. “I-is there somewhere we can talk…in private?”

The hand gestured. “Step into m’ office, li’l lady.”

“Talltrees,” she told him quietly. “Andrea Talltrees.”

“Mistress Talltrees.” The shadowy head nodded, as if accepting her correction. “An’ speak yer piece.”

Andi didn’t answer. Suddenly it seemed very warm, the smoke from the fuel lamps on each table combining with the body heat of the customers to make the room an uncomfortable contrast to the coolness outside. She tugged open the top two buttons of her jacket, and stood there, uncertain how to begin.

“You said Al sent you?” he prompted, leaning forward to take a slender black stick out of a holder on the table.

He picked up the little petrocandle, a pseudo-relic of an earlier era serving as a centerpiece, and touched the tip of the stick to the tiny flame. For an instant, she had a glimpse of long tawny hair and thick copper brows. Then, the light faded as he replaced the lamp and settled back. A thick cloud of smoke was blown in her direction. She coughed slightly.

“I-Is that a cigar?”

She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. He took it out of his mouth and looked at it. She could see the glowing tip reflected in his eyes and that made her uneasy.

“Why, so it is.” There was mock surprise in the rasp. “Chock full o’ nicotine, carcinogens, carbon particles, an’ God knows how many other nasty things.” He shook his head. “My, my.”

“But…but they’re illegal.”

Tobacco was on the List of Unlawful Substances issued by the Surgeon General, was Number One, in fact. She flapped at the smoke with one hand, trying to fan it away. She felt a little dizzy; the smell of tobacco, whisky, and burning oil from the candle was overpowering.

“Lady, I’m a smuggler.” The harsh voice was contemptuous. “I bring in fifty cases o’ these a week, an’ at eight hundred Credits a box, I can afford to let fifty real dollars’-worth go up in smoke.”

“But they’re bad for your health.” It came out before she realized it.

“Don’t you worry about m’ health, li’l lady.” The voice was impatient. “You say ya got business with me? Then hurry up an’ state it. I came here t’ do some serious drinkin’ an’ yer interferin’ with m’ plans.”

She peered into the dimness, trying to see his face. It was like looking at a shadow.

“Can’t we have a little more light? I can hardly see you.”

That brought a short growl of amusement. “So, you want t’ see me, do you? Jake!” The bartender looked in their direction. As did several others. “Bring a bigger lamp. Th’ li’l lady can’t see enough o’ me!”

There was a spout of laughter and a gabble of crude remarks as Jake, grinning broadly, hurried over with another lamp. He set it on the table, whisked away the smaller one, and Sinbad leaned forward, tilting the shade so that the brightness shone on his face like a spotlight.

“There! That better?”

Andi stared at him. Oh, my God. Sitting before her was a cat in human form. His hair, the wildest, curliest stuff she had ever seen, was past shoulder length, a lion’s mane tamed by a leather headband, falling around tapered ears tufted with auburn fur, like those of a lynx she had seen near the chicken pen one Spring. From one nearly non-existent lobe dangled a thick gold ring. Heavy brows hung over jade-green eyes watching her with scornful amusement, slit pupils widened because of the low light in the room. He had high cheekbones and a long straight nose, a coppery Mandarin mustache drooping over a mouth in which the smoking cigar rested.

“I think ya stared long enough.” One of the gloved hands flicked at the shade. “Either shut yer mouth an’ quit gapin’, or open it an’ tell me whatcha want.”

“Please, can’t we go somewhere else to talk?”

With a hiss, he stood up, six feet, eight inches of irritated Felidan, picking up the mug setting upon the table.

“Hey, Jake!” Looking down at her, he took the cigar out of his mouth. “Can I borrow one o’ yer rooms fer a while?”

“Sure! Take Number Three.”

“Bring me a pitcher, then.”

He stalked away from the table, leaving her to run to keep up with his long-legged stride while the men’s laughter burned her ears. He pushed open the door and went in. Andi followed, closing it behind her. The little room was furnished with a table, two chairs, and a small bed against one wall, covered with surprisingly white sheets. Sinbad dropped into one of the chairs and motioned her toward the other.

She dropped the pack into the chair. It was just as close here as in the outer room. She felt dizzy again.

“Then who in th’ name o’ God did? Is this some kinda joke?” He pushed back his chair, putting both feet on the table and stared at her, his scowl turning the heavy brows into a copper vee. “Listen, woman, I ain’t got much patience, an’ I’m fast losing what little I do have.”

With a deep breath, Andi said, in a rush, “George Windrider said you could help me,” and waited for his reaction.

“I can’t.” She leaned forward, hands on the table. “It’s the Federation who’s taken him. You see, he’s an Albegensi.”

“You sure know how t’ pick winners.” The cigar had gone out. He relit it from the lamp on the table, and leaned back to regard her, his green eyes speculative. In the bright light of Number Three, his pupils were narrow black crescents. “Don’t tell me, let me guess…since th’ whole world is afraid o’ th’ Big Bad Federation, an’ no one else’ll help, you want me t’ find out where they’re holdin’ him. Right?”

She was sweating. She nodded and wiped her forehead with one hand.

“As a member of a group that has—no doubt foolishly—engaged in a military action against Terra, he’s probably been taken t’ th’ Black Mountain Reservation.”

“Black Mountain? But there’s nothing in that region.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone thinks. There’s an internment camp there, very secret—an’ very deadly. Few prisoners ever come back from Black Mountain.”

He seemed totally unconcerned of the effect his words might have on her.

“Can you help me?” she persisted, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice.

“Well, I could find out if he’s there. Is that all you want?” His tone indicated he considered her just short of insane to want to know where her husband was.

“Yes,” she assured him. “Just find out where Tran is, and I’ll do the rest.”

“Tran. That his name?”

She nodded. “Tran Day. He’s a farmer. He couldn’t possibly be a spy. The whole thing’s a stupid, stupid mistake.”

“They all say that,” he replied, unsympathetically.

He fell silent and Andi stood there, gripping the back of the chair, squeezing the wood so hard her fingers hurt, waiting for him to go on. The silence grew longer and quieter, until she wanted to scream. His nostrils crinkled as if he had scented something.

”Are you afraid o’ me?”

“Should I be?” She was, terribly, but she’d never tell him so.

“Maybe.” He fell quiet again, but just when she was ready to grab her pack and stalk out, he sat up, letting the legs of the chair strike the floor with a loud snap. “All right, I’ll do it, but it’ll cost.” The cigar, held in the gloved hand, pointed at her like a dagger, as the green eyes regarded her unwaveringly. “An’ I don’t think yer willin’ t’ pay th’ price.”

“How much?” she asked. “Tell me. I’ll pay it. I love my husband.”

“You might not love him that much.”

“I’ll do anything to free him.” She flung the words recklessly. “What do you want?”

The cigar stabbed at her again. “You.”

“What?” She hadn’t heard correctly. She couldn’t have. “W-what did you say?”

“Ya heard me. I want ya as m’ payment.” He blew a smoke ring into the air. “Yer good-looking’ fer a Milky. I like yer scent, even if ya have tried t’ hide it under that nauseatin’ perfume. Here’s m’ offer: stay with me tonight, an’ if I’m satisfied, I’ll find your mate fer ya.”

She stared at him, stunned into disbelief. This isn’t happening. This creature didn’t say that. He didn’t.

“Look on it as a business arrangement. Ya gimme me what I want, I give ya what ya want.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “What say?”

“Wait just a minute.“ She startled herself by saying exactly what she was thinking. “W-what’s to stop you from just kicking me out after you…get what you want?”

“Good point.” His look indicated he was surprised she had thought of it. “Okay, we do it, an’ good or bad, ya get th’ location o’ th’ camp. Fair?”

He leaned back again, studying the ash on the tip of his cigar before flicking it onto the floor. Waiting. Confident. Enjoying her indecision.

Andi’s thoughts were frantic. Was this what George was warning me about? Oh, God, Tran, I love you, but I can’t do that. Not even for you.

What am I going to do? He’s right. No one else is going to help me. They’re all too afraid. Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to start. Tran will never know. Her hands clenched into fists. I-I’ll just pretend it never happened. She forced her hands to relax, took a deep breath and tried to speak. She had to swallow twice before any sound would come out. Even then, it was a bare whisper.

“A-all right.”

“Good!” He stubbed the cigar into the ashtray on the table. “Well? Go ahead…strip.”

“What? Here? Now?”

He smiled, the light sparkling off long incisors, flashing a fanged leer. “Right. Here. Now. Th’ day ain‘t getting’ any younger, an’ there‘s an empty bed yonder just waitin’ t’ be used.”

Mouth set in a determined line, she took off her jacket and dropped it into the chair. The hand-knit sweater had four buttons at the neck. She got them open and pulled it over her head. Underneath, she wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt. As she began to open the dozen, tiny buttons down its front, frowning in concentration, he gave an exasperated growl.

“Good God! How many clothes’re ya wearin’? D’ ya think it’s winter?”

“It’s still cold in the Valley,” she answered defensively, watching her hands.

Don’t look at him. Don’t think about it. She got the shirt off and heard his groan as he saw the sleeveless undershirt. He was getting impatient, the gloved fingers tapping a loud tattoo on the tabletop. She was afraid he would walk out if she delayed any longer. Quickly, she pulled the tank top over her head and reached for the catch to her bandeau.

The door opened. Jake came in carrying a pitcher of beer, a blast of sound following him into the room. Gasping, Andi snatched at the undershirt and held it against her chest. Her chin quivered. Jake looked from her to Sinbad.

“Sorry, Sin. I-I didn’t think you’d be this far along.”

The smuggler tapped the table with one finger. “Put it there, Jake. Thanks. Now, get out.” There was barely controlled anger in the low voice. The bartender did as he was told and hurried toward the door. “An’ Jake--” He paused and looked back. “Make certain we’re not bothered again.”

“Right. I’ll put up the Do Not Disturb sign.” He went out, slamming the door.

With a shaky sigh, Andi dropped the undershirt. She was dizzy again, feeling the way she had the day her horse ran under a tree and she had hit her head on a limb: lightheaded…sick. There was a roaring in her ears.

“We’ve wasted enough time, woman.”

A gloved hand reached for her and Andi went limp, falling without a sound into a crumpled heap at the smuggler’s feet.

Sugar woke before dawn, hearing sirens doppler into the distance as if headed back into the dream that had ejected her. She stared at the cracked ceiling, lost, and then remembered to look at the city map taped to the wall by the bed. Tampa.

If this is Tampa, my name is Taylor. First name, Sarah.

And, dammit, it was time to move on. Find a new identity, a new room to rent, a new job that would pay enough so she could send something worthwhile toward Joe’s support. The process had become all too familiar in the three years since she’d stood in that oak-paneled meeting room, watching the judge tap cigarette ash into a Co-Cola bottle, hearing a radio drone on about the wedding gown Lady Diana was wearing today, and hearing her own voice like a stranger’s, agreeing to testify against Digger and his goons.

But then the feds had proven equally inept with their so-called witness protection program and their ability to keep Digger behind bars pending trial. So when he ran, she’d had to run. And keep running, although he probably had condos all over the country in addition to a land yacht of a luxury bus bigger than her current home. Digger had a thing about being clean, and a thing about being comfortable. Clean was usually the best Sugar could hope for.

One good thing about moving on -- just before leaving was the time to contact Joe. “Mom!” he always whispered. “You’re okay!”

That call was never enough. But it was worth living for, and therefore worth waiting for. Couldn’t call now, no matter how badly she wanted to hear his voice. Couldn’t call until she had everything lined up for her next metamorphosis.

She scratched absently at the hollows in her forearms, where the knives she wore under her sleeves had made homes for themselves. These impressions might stay in place long after the knives were gone; she still had a hollow around the base of her ring finger to match the wedding band she’d once worn. That band had gone for…she stretched slowly, all over…forty bucks. Yeah, twenty-six dollars to buy Joe’s bus ticket to safety, and the rest for burgers along the way.

Best forty bucks she’d ever spent.

The driving need to make contact wasn’t a good enough reason to give up an identity, especially here where the pay was so good, but other concerns gnawed at her. One was the fact she was too close to home, to the three-stoplight town where she’d grown up, and where she’d finally sent Joe to hide.

Two was the time span. She’d been here four months. Twice now, Digger had found her trail in less time. Four months and this close to home was pushing her luck on two sides at once. Couldn’t do that. Whatever measure of luck she’d been born with, she’d long ago burned through it. This was supposed to have been a brief stop to pump up her finances with the identity of a lady she actually knew, a retired physical therapist, but she’d gotten sidetracked.

And that was three: the kicker. She’d lost her marbles. Gone gaga over a patient.

She’d done physical therapy in about half her identities, but had never, ever fallen for a patient. Not until last month, when she’d walked into the room where Marco was fooling with the grip gauge and they’d both stopped dead and stared at one another. Neither had moved, and might not have breathed, until she’d finally found her voice and said, “Excuse me, but this room is for pediatric patients.”

He’d blushed, all schoolboy. One of those boys who got a man’s face and a man’s size when, poor things, they were just adolescents inside.

Jailbait. That’s the operative word.Worse than an entanglement, and getting entangled in other people’s lives is how you get caught. That dark, intent stare felt like a man’s appreciation, but it was really only a boy’s puppy crush.

She stretched again. Might as well get up now.

* * * * *

Fort stretched out on the weather-roughened planks of the matriarch’s pier, watching the phosphorescent leading edges of the waves coming in. Even with no moon, the sky glowed with Tampa’s everlasting city-aura, and the waves reflected it. The punklets, his youngest pair of brothers, snored lightly at his feet.

The sun would be up soon, stopping the boys’ sneak-and-stalk exercises. They’d barely have time to shower and change before starting the schoolweek: five straight days of pretending to be completely human.

He caught scent of a male, rank with day-old sweat. The snoring twins were too young to produce that odor. So, a pair of the teens has picked me as prey? He grinned at the swells rolling under the pier.

Trying to sneak up on him took balls, if nothing else. In the past six years -- no, seven years, since right before Dad had taken up with the punklets’ mother -- only Cassio had succeeded. And Cassio’s reward had been surgery to put his arm back together, followed by the six weeks of physical therapy he’d just completed. Not that it had put a dent in his smart-ass attitude.

This pair was good. They used the rhythm of the waves to cover their footfalls and their breathing. But their assumption their prey would pay attention to only sight and sound was pure arrogance, which could get them killed. He spoke toward the waves. “At this time of night, the wind comes off the land toward the water. Never expect your quarry to be nose-deaf.”

A moment passed. Then one of the stalkers sighed. “Shit. I thought we had you.”

Russ and Jimmy. Of course. His cousins were sixteen, six years his junior, and increasingly prone to challenge his authority.

He rolled over as the teens settled in lotus positions beside the sleeping little ones. Russ, identifiable by his mullet haircut, mashed a mosquito on his cheek. “Even if you smelled someone, how could you tell it wasn’t them two?”

The punklets stirred. One mumbled, a note of distress. His twin, still deep asleep, put a hand on his arm in an automatic comforting gesture. They settled together. They had long hair like kids on TV. Or, rather, like Russ and Jimmy, the cool rebels of the family.

Little kids could afford hair long enough to get grabbed in a fight. Most of the twins, like Fort himself, kept it short. Jimmy and Russ always had to be different. If I’d known it was you two coming up on me, I’d have grabbed you by the hair and slung you into the water. Two lessons for the price of one.

Too late now. Fort caught a mosquito and pinched it against the splintery pier. “Guess who’s too young to need Right Guard? Guess who isn’t? When it comes your time to hunt down a hyde, you need to remember he has a better nose than you do. Almost dog-sharp. He won’t be as smart as before he crossed over, but he’ll have some cunning left.”

His cousins remained silent; the lack of a fight was as close to agreement as he got from them these days.

Fort stretched, popping joint after joint. As soon as I get y’all off to school, I’m taking a nap. After a full weekend of beach camping, he deserved a few hours of complete quiet. Then he could boot up the Commodore and see what he’d been missing on the Compuserve boards. Maybe drum up some business for Double Deuce Security, before the proceeds of the last job ran thin. “Whistle everyone in. First three pair in get showers with hot water. The rest get to wash up at the hose.”

“First three is you, the punklets, and us. Game over.”

“The punklets don’t need showers, and you two have to stay outside to supervise. Plus, you have PE first period. You can shower then.”

“Awww, mannn!”

He stretched again, ignoring them, and followed the scent of strong Cuban coffee to the matriarch’s back deck. He paused at the door, unsure whether to knock, and the matriarch opened it a crack.

“Good morning.” She cocked her head to the side, like a chickadee, and peered up at him. “Any of your brothers get hauled off by mosquitoes?”

“I’m having them counted now,” he said, politely.

“Are you Fort or Cassio?”

“I’m Fort, ma’am.”

“Then come in for coffee, do. I don’t have the patience to listen to Cassio moon on about his new Perfect Woman -- I swear he finds a new one every three months! -- but you’re worth talking to.”

He smiled. “Thank you.” Wiping his feet, he added, “If Cassio gets his way with the one he’s been sniffing behind the past few weeks, we may all be in for some relief.”

She gestured toward a round-tabled breakfast nook overlooking the dock and the waves. Her loudly flowered caftan fluttered with the notion. She hadn’t dressed yet, but she had taken time to crayon-on her lipstick and eyebrows. “Is this female why you’ve asked to speak with me?”

“No, ma’am.” He stopped, and considered. Cassio falling in love normally meant heartfelt declarations, bad poetry, and mournful sighs. This time, Cassio falling in love meant a surreptitious photo, copies of the cleverly faked documents in her personnel file, and a plea to find out who the woman really was. He hadn’t found out, but he hadn’t given up trying yet. “I don’t see an immediate connection. Perhaps you might correct me.”

“Sugar, no cream?”

“Please.” Cassio was the one who liked sugar and double cream.

“Angelina’s babies have dropped. It won’t be long now.”

“They aren’t mine, regardless of what she says. Nor Cassio’s.” But they very well might be Russ or Jimmy’s, neither of whom was emotionally ready to hive off a family of his own. Meaning they’d be effectively mine anyway, just like the results of Ty’s first bused rubber. Shit.

“I hear she’s an extraordinary feeder, and of course she has a daughter.”

“She swore that daughter was mine, until it was past arguing.” No huntsman ever fathered a daughter -- didn’t have the genes to do it. Angelina had been adopted as a toddler and raised with huntsmen, but she had to have been slipping around the back ways with human males, to have turned up with a singlet child, much less a daughter. Angelina had the iron will to eventually become a matriarch, and command obedience among the huntsmen in her territory. But she didn’t have the maturity.

Right now, she was just difficult. He had enough difficulty with the guys.

The matriarch filled a pair of small, thick-walled cups. “What if the Guardian says this pair is yours?”

So much for peaceful sleep for a while. I bet the price of diaper service has gone up too. He shrugged and reluctantly took the bench seat behind the round table, even though it put his back to the window, as a nod to the matriarch’s status. “We’d need a new nursery setup. Gave ours away when the punklets outgrew it.”

The matriarch smiled faintly. “If not protection from Angelina’s claim, and if not authorization to bring in this new female Cassio has fixated on, what did you want of me?”

I want the right to get close to a woman on my own terms. I want to choose what to tell her instead of telling her what you think she can be trusted to hear. I want a say in whether any of my guy have become enough of a risk to be neutered or hunted down like a rabid dog. I want to be treated as an adult, not merely as the eldest of fouteen boys. He couldn’t see any way to say that without sounding like a whiny-ass adolescent, though, and even if he could, it would lead away from the line of conversation he wanted to pursue. He sipped the coffee, oily and bitter as it was, without the sugar she seemed to have forgotten.

“Don’t drink that. I haven’t doctored it yet.” She spooned pale golden sugar from an iridescent blue Depression Glass bowl. “I almost said don’t drink that, boy. But you haven’t been a boy for some time, have you? It takes a man to tend his responsibilities, and to keep tending them when the job gets old.”

He smiled. The other matriarchs routinely offered him fruit juice, or even milk, and he had to take it to prove he had more sense than ego. Swearing obedience to this one matriarch had been one of the best decisions he’d ever made. She’d gradually loosened the reins since he’d taken over as surrogate parent for his brothers, then his nephews and cousins as well. She’d stopped demanding copies of everyone’s report cards, copies of his shopping lists and bank statements, input on how the boys dressed and wore their hair, details of the punklets’ weights and bowel habits.

But if she sold her property to those condo people and left, he’d have to prove himself to her successor. Which might not be possible. He couldn’t protect the guys unless he had a matriarch on his side, or unless he took the big risk, stepped forward into the coming power vacuum as the new Guardian. But as far as he knew, there hadn’t been a Guardian under the age of thirty since World War Two. He needed time. Eight years or ten years. Time. “I want you to put off your retirement.”

A knock sounded. Laertes, or Horatio, opened the door enough to poke in his disheveled head. He wore a spray of green sandspurs over his ear. “Russ said me and Ray could shower inside?”

The matriarch’s painted-on eyebrows rose.

Shit. “Do you just open a door in somebody else’s home, Larry? Why bother knocking?”

The boy’s eyes went wide, all chocolate and hurt innocence. “Russ said you were expecting us, to go on in.”

The matriarch chuckled. “That sounds like Russell. Let him know my lawn needs his personal attention this week. The roof and gutters need sweeping too. You’ll find towels on the backs of the toilets.”

“Thanks! Um… Where’s the bathrooms, please, ma’am?”

She directed the parade of reeking boys, each pair carrying a paper sack with clean clothes for school, while refilling her cup and Fort’s. Tybalt’s boys were high-fiving each other and crowing over the fact neither of them had been tagged all weekend.

The punklets came in last, yawning, Robin wiping his nose as he had been all week. Without invitation, they crawled onto the bench seat beside him and leaned in. They’d slept through most of the past night. At their age, though, they really needed more than most of a night.

The matriarch shut the door harder than necessary. “Good grief! Those two can’t be old enough to stay up all night!”

The punklets sat up straight, and Robin made a farting sound in his nose.

Fort put his arms around them anyway. “They’re six, and we have a deal. I only treat them like babies when they act like babies. For example, by making disgusting noises at the table, or in front of the matriarch.”

To his relief, the punklets stood up and bowed, like the little hams they both were. Being huntsmen, they strongly resembled their mother, who’d been a professional mime before Dad went hyde on her.

Robin wiped his nose on a paper napkin. “We’re sorry, ma’am. We won’t do it again.”

The matriarch burst out laughing, her eyes closed and her hands splayed in front of her face. Wiping her eyes with one flowered sleeve, she went back to the fridge. She returned with two glasses of milk and sat down opposite Fort. “Why do you want me not to retire?”

You would have to say that in front of the twin tape recorders. Who might repeat any qualms he voiced in front of the next matriarch, effectively pooping in the pool before he could show off his swimming strokes. He smiled and gave the boys a measured warning stare from under his eyelashes. “You’re awfully young to retire, and you excel in your job. You and the Guardian are a perfect team.”

She curled one side of her mouth. She did not, however, comment on his gall in judging her performance. “We are. We are also getting married, after we both sell out our properties. Taxes, you know. Then we’re moving to Costa Rica.”

Costa Rica? Someplace in South America? Central, maybe? Why? “What could I do to convince you both to postpone your retirement?”

“Until you’re old enough to be Guardian?”

That shot, from nowhere, took his breath. Who’d been talking? Nobody. He hadn’t breathed a word of that secret ambition. Not even to Cassio.

She grinned, plainly delighted, then sobered. “The basic qualification is to be thirty-five or to have raised teenagers. The unspoken qualification is you have to be married to someone who has the qualities to be a matriarch in her own right. You’ve raised teenagers. If one matriarch gave you total support, you’d be a shoo-in. But it won’t be me, because I’m leaving. It won’t be anyone else around here either; they wanted the batch of you…” Her eyes flicked to the little ones, and back to him. “Neutralized, after your father and his twin crossed over. They said every one of y’all would go hyde within two years of puberty, but you lost only Tybalt!” Her eyes went fierce, burning through the grandmotherly softness of her face. “And it wasn’t you who lost him!”

The punklets tensed, huddling against him.

The matriarch looked at them again, and her tone gentled. “What it boils down to, Fort, is you’ve proven all the biddie-hens wrong; they won’t forgive you that. So you have to bring in a new matriarch. You have to find a wife soon, Fort. As in right now. She has to be emotionally stable, intelligent, and tough-minded. And to keep you going under the strain of being a Guardian, she’ll have to be one hell of a feeder. Preferably, she should bring in at least one daughter. I won’t call Angelina perfect, but she’s available and she has promise. If not Angelina, who?”

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